


Jesus Wept

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:18:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t mistake me, Dean. When you drive off, when you leave this room, I don’t want you to make any mistake about what I’m about to say to you.” <br/>In which Dean becomes privy to a horrible truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jesus Wept

Dean comes out on the other side five pounds lighter, and feeling as if he could drink a liter of water in one go, and still remain dehydrated.

He feels like he faced the ravages of famine and is somehow relatively unscathed. Dean’s tugging on his pants and he’s got to sit down on the edge of his bed momentarily, one pants leg pulled up over his calf. He braces one hand on the bedspread behind him and cradles his head in the palm of his hand.

Dean hears the front door slide open, slow drag making his eyes quirk up. Sam’s carrying a bag which smells suspiciously like warm muffins, and he deposits it on the bed beside Dean. Entire gaze spelling out exhaustion. Dean curls weak fingers around it, and then glances up at Sammy, who's sitting listlessly, gazing at his hands.

Dean takes a small bite of the blueberry muffin, and lets it slide back into the bag. He’s not particularly hungry.

“We’re just not gonna talk about it, then?”

Sammy offers, eyes focused on the dingy brown-green decor under his booted feet.

Dean shrugs, half-assed thing, and tugs a little on the one pants leg he’s got on. “Don’t see what there is to talk about. Had a problem, fixed it.” He smiled wanly.

“Me’n you Sammy, just like old times.” He’s stretching his left leg up to shove it in his jeans, so he doesn’t notice Sammy invade his personal space, for the millionth time this week, alone.

“That’s what you call it?” Sam’s face is thinner than it should be, Dean notices absently, bags hovering just underneath his eyes. “You call you _presenting_ yourself to me, a small problem?”

Dean opens his mouth, face aflame, but Sam’s not finished.

“You shut the fuck up.” Sammy’s never used Alpha tone on him before. Not once. Not in all his life, since he first figured out he could do it. Only time he’s used it is during the accursed heat, when Dean was attempting to rape him in every fashion he could conjure up.

But Dean’s mouth is closing so fast his jaw physically aches, and he’s glowering up at his little brother, heart battering his chest.

“Fucking broke me. Let yourself lay out in that alley...” Sam grabs the front of Dean’s black t-shirt, dragging him forward until their chests are touching.

“You would have been ass up for the first knot that scented you.” Sam’s face contorts. “But you didn’t want me--your goddamn brother to help you out.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t honestly know how to defend against that, if he’s even allowed to speak.

“You don’t know. You don’t know what I did. To leave you alone.”

Sam releases Dean’s shirt and allows him to tumble back onto the bed. “To leave you unclaimed.” Dean’s shaking his head, now. Venomous.

“Don’t you dare put this on me, Sammy. I told you to _let me go._ You came anyway. You scent marked me. You made me--fucking owned me.”

Sam’s eyes are wild and he grips his hair with two hands. “I won’t let anyone claim what doesn’t belong to them!”

Dean’s nonplussed. Doesn’t understand what Sammy means. “Sam,” he begins, cautiously. “No one claimed me. I’m still me, man.”

Sam’s laugh is mirthless, a tragedy. “You asked me to let you hang off my knot. Let you fucking dangle there all day.” Dean’s abashed, averts his face.

“No need to spell it out Sammy. I was there.”

Sam closes his eyes, sinks back into the chair. “I was gonna let you. Wanted you to.” He looks up, his gaze level. He is all Alpha, here, even his back is ramrod straight.

“Don’t mistake me, Dean. When you drive off, when you leave this room, I don’t want you to make any mistake about what I’m about to say to you.” Sam steeples his fingers under his chin, smiles sardonically.

“I wanted to knot you, good and proper, lock you so tight you’d need a fucking password to get free.” Dean reels backwards, body doubling over on the bed. Sammy’s derailed. Dean’s driven Sam to insanity, because he kept him locked in a room with a fertile omega, forced him to deny his most basic instinct.

Disallowed him to _breed._

Dean doesn’t know what to do. How the fuck is he supposed to fix this, now?

Sam waves his hand in Dean’s general direction. “Stop thinking that. Everything isn’t your goddamned fault.” He glances dismally at Dean’s protective form. “Ever wonder why Dad did that to you?”

Dean’s startled. Didn’t know Sammy knew anything about it. “M’not stupid Dean. Scented you when you declared. Knew you never went into a heat. But, difference is, I knew why--and the bastard never told you.”

Dean’s inching forward, feet planted on the floor. “What the fuck are you talking about, Sammy? Dad--I was a liability. Couldn’t hunt if I became a damn knot-toy every fucking month.” Sammy scrubs a hand across his face. “And m’sure that was a part of it.” Sammy leans down, stares directly into Dean’s bottle-green eyes.

“When you presented, I told Dad I was gonna claim you. Told him you were mine, and I wouldn’t let another damn soul touch you for the rest of your life.” Dean presses his knuckles into his mouth. Let's his incisors elongate and carve into the callused flesh.

Dean knows what that means. Alphas always recognize a mate, whether they’ve presented yet or not. It’s a dead giveaway as to what their sex will be. Dad knew Sammy’d be an Alpha. Knew it for years before he declared.

And he turned Dean _off_. Made it so Sammy couldn’t scent his own fucking mate--

Sam recognizes the instant it’s discerned, the very second Dean realizes what a travesty has been committed, understood what Sam has always known. If John Winchester ever had a soul, it went up in flames right alongside his wife.

Dean’s shaking his head now, violently. “He couldn’t do that Sam, Sammy, maybe you were fucking wrong, man, you were, what, ten? How could you have known? How the hell could you have known I was it?” Dean’s shaking, runs damp hands against his half-on, half-off jeans. He struggles into them, then, jerking them onto his legs haphazardly.

“I was the first ‘mega you ever smelled, Sam. Fuck, I would’ve been confused too.” Sam’s laughing, head thrown back, entire body into it, and Dean can scent the rancid smell of his own fear.

Sam apparently can, too, and his laughter ceases as suddenly as it began, and he sends pheromones of comfort in Dean’s direction. Dean’s way too fucked up at this point to refuse, breathes the scent in deep and allows his heart to decelerate.

“I always knew. Dean. Even when he took you from me, made you smell like--fuck like, nothing. I fucking knew. But man, I knew you didn’t and--Dean you love him, it would’ve broken you.” Sam’s smile is despondent, and Dean’s floored to realize that this is the exact countenance he had worn when he’d gone to California.

When he’d stood at the bus stop, seventeen years old, hands buried in the pockets of a too large hoodie, peering down at Dean through shaggy bangs.

_Ah, Dean, just come, man. There’s hunts in Palo Alto. All those rich stiffs? I know they’ve pissed off some ghosts._

Dean remembers that look, so damn hangdog, and fucking hungry. Desperation covered by a veneer of nonchalance.

_I can’t, Sammy. You know--I’m all he’s got. Sam. Sammy, just--just look at me here, for a second, man!_

Sam, curled in on himself, rejected. Face more impenetrable than he’d ever seen it before. Replacing a face, he realizes belatedly, that he’ll never see again.

_What about me, Dean? What do I have?_

Dean shudders. That’s not fair. Why has the boy genius never played fair?

_Sammy, you were always independent. Always doing whatever you wanted,  screw any consequences. You don’t--”_ Dean ceases to exist, here. This is the part where he went and expired, for the first time. Knows where he’s buried. At that damned bus station.

_You don’t need me. Never have._

Sam blinks, pushes his hood down off of his head. Looks like an Alpha. Young one, all arms and legs, but Dean still feels the latent urge to submit, abide by Sam in all things.

_He’s had Mary. Had us. Had you, man. But all he ever gave me was you. And that’s wrong, too._

He’s walking away then, and Dean remembers that as vibrantly as if it had happened yesterday.

Dean wants to scream. Wants to waste a little more time denying the facts, wants to piss Sammy off so much, he leaves forever. Leaves him in this little room to curl up and fester.

Sam’s smile is weak, and damaged.

“You asked me to claim you. Kept baring your neck, offering yourself, so pretty, Dean.” Sam crosses over, cradles Dean’s face in between his palms. “I let you go, again.”

Sam crosses over to the front door, stops to snag his jacket on the way. His head’s bowed and his scent is a mixture of sorrow and suffering.

“I’ll keep doing that, Dean. Long as you want it.” Sam exits the room then, door shutting with a final snick behind him.

Dean’s crying. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm toying with continuing this, if you'd like it continued or you think that the story is best served finished, shoot me a comment!


End file.
